


letters written with your head buried in the sand

by querxes



Series: letters [3]
Category: Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Antisemitism, Canon Era, Enjoy it now because it will get worse!, Fluff and Angst, Labor in the early 1900s sucked, M/M, Xenophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-10
Updated: 2020-09-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:16:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26391787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/querxes/pseuds/querxes
Summary: The year is 1901, and David is officially failing at becoming an author. Someone won't let him throw the towel down.
Relationships: David Jacobs/Jack Kelly
Series: letters [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1837273
Comments: 10
Kudos: 47





	letters written with your head buried in the sand

**Author's Note:**

> I finished this in between my zoom classes, so please enjoy the fruits of my labor.

_2:29._

David sat in the waiting room, mindlessly thumbing through his paperwork. He checked over them once, twice, three times, and in his boredom he scanned over the paragraphs without absorbing a single word. He glanced up at the clock, then at his pocket watch, then back at the clock, then at his papers. What felt like ten minutes turned out to be only four when he glanced back up at the clock. It ticked, and ticked, and ticked away, but no one came out to get him. The secretary said two o’clock, right? Yes, she did. He knew she did. His mind went over the exact moment she directed him down the hallway, pointing at her pocket watch, telling him it would be a two o’clock meeting. So why was it almost two-thirty and no one had come to get him?

He tapped his foot against the expensive tiled floor, sighing heavily in an attempt to quell the nerves bubbling in the pit of his stomach. He checked his watch again and resorted to setting the papers down in the chair next to him and busied himself by pushing the cuticles back on his nails. The skin on his hands was bright red and raw from being scrubbed mercilessly in freezing cold water. Were they going to cancel on him? Suddenly say they weren’t finished? Or would they just throw the pages that made up _Castle Garden_ right back at him and kick him out?

He scratched at the imperfections on his face, tracing the blemishes near his hairline. His stomach started to hurt. He checked his watch again. _2:37._ This was getting ridiculous. But they _really_ needed the money this publication could bring. So he waited.

David checked his watch again. _2:39._ He suppressed the urge to groan. 

Seconds later, the office door finally, _finally_ swung open. 

“Mr. Jacobs?” It was the publicist, Mr. Bates, the same one he had met who strained a smile when David handed him the pile of papers with no university diploma attached. He was a middle-aged man who couldn’t have been much older than his father. He was certainly heavier-set and didn’t walk with a noticeable limp like his father did, but the graying hairs on his temple indicated their similar age.

David stood up quickly, rushing over to greet the shorter man with a firm handshake. 

He forced a pleasant smile. “Mr. Bates, it’s good to see you again.”

The man returned the strained look. “Likewise. Please, Mr. Jacobs, sit.” The man gestured to the chair in front of his desk, and David perched on the edge of the seat. He stilled his fiddling hands by lacing them tightly in his lap, only allowing for his thumb to escape and tap impatiently against his other fingers. There was a moment where the man stared at him with a blank smile. David could hear the sound of a new clock ticking, this one located above the door in the office. He forced down the urge to check his watch.

Mr. Bates sighed, a face devoid of all remorse staring back at David. “We have read your novel and while we agree that it is good-quality work,” the man paused, shrugging his shoulders tightly. “It just isn’t what we are looking for as a publishing company. I’m sorry, sir.”

 _Goddamn it._ David gripped the side of his thigh, squeezing hard. “Please, is there anything I can do?” He practically begged. He bit the inside of his lip, then regretfully started to bargain. “I could edit it or rewrite any sequences that didn’t quite fit.” David was fully aware _Castle Garden_ needed no editing whatsoever. That didn’t stop him when he remembered how close of a call it would be to make rent that month. The weather was getting colder, and Jack would need a new jacket for winter out on the docks. _Anything_ would help. 

Bates simply tutted. “I’m sorry to say, but that would mean changing the entire novel.” Then, he scoffed. “No one wants to hear an immigration story, especially from an author with no success. You haven’t even attended college and you expect to be published?”

David tensed. He dug his nails into his thigh, surely leaving bruises in his wake. He opened his mouth and did what he did best: cause trouble. “And that means I cannot be eloquent when it comes to writing? Tell me, Mr. Bates, does that mean my novel is poorly written because I couldn’t afford to attend college?” He snapped. “I have studied incredibly hard to be where I am today. Would this piece not hold up to other authors who have attended college?”

Bates shifted in his seat, folding his hands in his lap. “I believe it does, Mr. Jacobs, I will admit that your storytelling is incredible. But you must understand, you are attempting to write a story about a family building themselves from the ground up when you yourself have not even succeeded in such feats.”

David clenched his jaw so hard that it creaked. “With all due respect, sir, I am telling an immigration story, not a success story. I am telling the story of millions of others who have gone through the same struggles as my family has, and I believe I told it well. And that is the whole point of becoming published, is it not? To become successful?”

Bates sighed, shaking his head like David was being a petulant child. He ignored David’s statement. “The only advice I can give you is that it _should_ be a success story. This has no happy ending.” He lifted the copy of papers off his desk, waving them in the air as he spoke. “Americans love an underdog, sure, but there has to be someone they want to root against. You are pinning this story against our Americans and in the favor of those who ride off the backs of our success. It is not enticing to an audience, especially to an audience that will consist of your villains. Your audience needs to be able to actually read and understand it, correct?” The man hardly refrained from smirking as he tossed the copy of _Castle Garden_ back onto the desk, where it landed with a soft _thud._ “Furthermore, you are just not what this company is looking for as of now. We wish you the best of luck, but you will not find it here.”

Bates could’ve spit in David’s face and it would’ve felt less insulting. His throat strained against the urge to scream in anger, to stand up and lean over the desk and clock the man in his smug face. How dare he—?!

_Dignity, David._

David took a deep breath. He set his jaw, and without looking back gathered his papers, snatched the abandoned copy of _Castle Garden_ off Bates’ desk, and slammed the door to the office behind him.

* * *

“I am _livid.”_

“Yeah, I kinda read that,” Jack joked, then turned serious. He placed a hand on Davey’s shoulder, rubbing at the tight knots there. Davey leaned back into the touch, letting his bruised eyelids fall shut. “What happened this time ‘round?”

Davey groaned in frustration, his eyebrows knit together. “This one was even more prejudiced than the last. He was fucking insulting the entire time. He insulted me, he insulted my family, he practically insulted _all_ immigrants.” He clenched his fists in barely repressed rage. _“Your audience needs to be able to read it._ My audience is people like _him_ who still think immigrants are the scum of the earth! I just—He— _Ugh!”_ He buried his head in his hands, yanking at the strands of hair curling onto his forehead.

“Hey, _hey,_ Dave,” Jack ran his hands over Davey’s, gently tugging them away and threading their fingers together. “He’s just a jerk who don’t see your talent. I wouldn’t get all worked up over one stupid publisher.” Jack pressed a kiss to the crown of Davey’s head, hoping to relieve some of the tension built up in his husband’s body.

Davey sighed heavily. “I wouldn't be so concerned if this wasn’t the _fifth time_ I’ve been turned down,” he stressed. “I have no idea how we’re gonna make rent this month.” Davey clenched his jaw and slammed his eyelids shut, squeezing them tight. “Maybe I should just get a factory job. I don’t know why I even thought this writing thing would work.”

Jack interjected by rapidly shaking his head, making all kinds of noises in the back of his throat. “Hey, _no,_ you are not taking any factory job, or nothin’ else. It’s gonna be okay,” Jack soothed, sliding to sit on the corner of the desk and brush his thumbs over Davey’s tight jaw and brow. “We’re doin’ alright, ain’t we? We got our own place, I got a good, steady job at the docks.” He paused, but continued without further hesitation. “I’ll pick up a few extra hours, that’s all.” He didn’t want Davey to pick up on the weariness in his voice.

Davey caught it easily, voicing his own concerns as well. “Jackie, you _already_ work nearly eleven hours a day for six days a week! You’re gonna drive yourself into the ground if you keep going like this!”

Jack clenched his own jaw and shook his head adamantly. “Dave, you’re brilliant, you hear me?” He demanded, opening up his palms and holding his calloused hands to Davey’s face, forcing him to look Jack in the eye. “You’re gonna be the best damned author this world’s ever seen, I promise ya. You got somethin’ the world isn’t even ready to comprehend with how damn brilliant it is. The song ain’t written yet, and it’s gonna be you who composes the whole damn thing. Let me do this for us now, because soon enough, it’s gonna be you that brings in all the money. It’s just a little sacrifice we gotta make for now.”

Davey went to interject, face twisted in a frown, but Jack placed a hand over his mouth and raised his eyebrows.

 _“So,_ all I need from you, sir, is for you to just keep focusing on getting all those words inside your head onto paper,” he said, grabbing the sheet of frantic math off of Davey’s desk and waving it around, laughing when David took it back out of his hands and put it on the desk. “And I promise, you’s gonna have a big name one of these days, Davey. Or, ah,” Jack cleared his throat, placing his hand over his chest. _“David Ephraim Jacobs,”_ he mocked, bowing with his lips pinched tight until he looked back up again, a shit-eating grin on his face. 

Davey rolled his eyes and sat back down, pretending to throw a pen at him, spinning around in his chair to position himself directly in front of the desk. He poised his pen just above the paper, but lifted his gaze when he heard Jack shift and felt a pair of eyes burn into the back of his head. He turned his head slightly to the left, only to come face-to-face with Jack. Davey rolled his eyes when he saw Jack grinning at him with slightly crossed eyes, bent awkwardly at the waist to meet Davey’s height in the chair.

Jack snorted. “Come on, Mr. Jacobs, is that any way to treat your fella? By ignoring his good words and flawless reasoning?” He laughed, clasping his fingers around Davey’s suspenders before dragging him out of the chair, drawing a sharp laugh from Davey. 

“Flawless,” Davey said. “Since when has that word been part of your vocabulary?”

“Since I married a walkin’ encyclopedia,” Jack taunted. He spun around before throwing himself on the mattress in the middle of the room, expression turning both mischievous and sultry somehow at the same time. His shoulders shook from holding his laughter, trying to class his expression. “Besides, you _like_ all the muscle I’ve built from the docks, don’t you?”

Davey stood in front of the bed, rolling his eyes good-naturedly before sinking down on the bed in front of Jack, smirking down at him. “Well, what gave you that outrageous idea?”

* * *

Davey blinked in the darkness, eyelids heavy and back sore. He stretched slightly, cautious of not disturbing the man who had slung an arm across Davey’s chest. He reveled in the warmth that radiated off of Jack, lifting a gentle hand to card through the tuft of hair at the base of his neck, and he smiled gently as his husband let out a soft snore.

The nights they got to actually spend their time together were becoming fewer and farther in between, so Davey tried to appreciate every second he got with his husband at his side. A thrum of sadness wormed its way into Davey’s sleep-addled brain, dragging him down and pinning him in his place. A chill worked its way across his bare chest despite the warm late summer air, only cut off by the warm weight of Jack’s arm resting across him.

After about a half-hour of attempting to lull himself back to well-needed sleep, he wormed his way out from underneath Jack’s arm and the thin sheets they slept under. He lazily slid into the wooden chair in front of his desk, lighting the candle next to his stacked papers. He glanced at the copy of _Castle Garden_ sitting abandoned in the corner, then at the list of numbers with subtraction marks all over the page. He pushed that one aside, stuffing it under the other papers.

Millions of thoughts and ideas rushed into his mind all at once, but with one glance back at Jack’s relaxed, sleeping form on the bed behind him, the expanse of his back illuminated gently under the warm glow of the candlelight, he knew exactly what to write.

_August 28, 1901_

_Francis,_

_You’re incredible. In every way, in every universe, I find myself lost in thousands of lifetimes with you. I can’t ever possibly imagine a world without you by my side, in my bed. I’m the luckiest damn man on the Earth. Never,_ ever _forget that._

_You’re tired. I know you are. I can see it in the way you can only truly let the tension release from your back and your shoulders when you are asleep. I want to save you from it. I wish I could save you from it. I’m sorry._

_It’s just, I try and it_ _~~never seems to be enough~~ ~~doesn't get better~~ ~~always comes apart~~ _ _gets more difficult with every passing day. I’m not giving up because I know you have put so much faith in me. Faith_ and _money. Sometimes, I think that’s the only reason why I keep on writing and trying so hard. No one else can make me believe in the things you do. I would do anything to make you happy, and it hurts to see you suffering at my foolish expense. But you believe in this pipe dream. I don’t know what to make of it. You really think my name will be big._

_I’m not giving up because I know you’re counting on me. It’s always been you. If anyone can chalk it into existence, it’s you. Well, if I do “get big,” you’ll be drawing my portrait photo. I know if we did get rich, we could get a photograph, but why would I want that when I could have your art? I want the world to see me the way you see me. Not like that, I can practically see you smirking with an innuendo perched on your lips._

_This feels so selfish. I_ am _selfish for letting you talk me into believing this crazy dream will work. I think that some days it would be a blessing to fill a spot on the assembly line just so you could get a decent pair of gloves and shoes to match the jacket I would buy you. We_ need _that money. I’m sorry that I can’t be more strict and make my own decision to back out without your influence. But I am trying to believe in it too, and that won’t help us. It won’t help you, and I’m so sorry. Santa Fe was always your escapist dream, but becoming an author is mine. I can’t let it go yet. Good thing you won’t let me let go anyway._

 _I_ _promise I will find a sixth publisher to send my story to, and maybe even a seventh or an eighth or a ninth if I need to. It’s the least I can do for you. You’re still going to be my artist husband, and maybe we can live in Santa Fe like we talked about. This will work. This has to. I won’t let you suffer needlessly for my own dreams._

_Yours forever,_

_David_

He set the pen down with a hand trembling from exhaustion, blowing out the candle in one swift motion. He climbed back into bed, thoughts still spiraling and swirling in his mind, but he slammed his eyes shut and instead focused on the soft pattern of Jack’s breathing, taking the deep, steady breaths along with him. It wasn’t long before he let himself drift away.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!  
> Please let me know what you think in the comments or come yell at me on tumblr @thetruthabouttheboy or my main @querxes! I always love hearing from you!


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